


Selfish Prayers

by octoberland



Category: Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Blood, F/M, Sexual Content, Temporary Character Death, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:52:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1211572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octoberland/pseuds/octoberland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darcy needs a heavy hand. Loki needs salvation. Will their prayers go unanswered or will they each get what they need?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Don’t ask me what I’m doing ‘cause I don’t know. I hadn’t planned on doing any writing today. I know I have a million other things to update. But I’ve had kink on the brain and I always have Loki on the brain. So this happened. I had wanted to write the whole thing tonight but I’m famished and tired so I’ll have to do part two tomorrow. This is not beta’d. And it’s not for the faint of heart or those who think female submission is evil. That being said, there’s not much of that in this chapter. There is, however, references to torture and mention of blood and character death, sort of.
> 
> This would definitely be considered AU though it does exist in the world Marvel created. Just with timelines and events shifted and melded in places. A dose of mythology is thrown in as well as a reference to the new Loki comic book story. Absolutely no copyright infringement intended anywhere. Story title is borrowed from the song Bedroom Hymns by Florence + The Machine and lyrics in the story are from Hurricane by 30 Seconds To Mars. One could easily argue that Darcy is out of character here but I feel like I could easily argue that we don’t know that for sure as she holds this card particularly close to her and we don’t really know a whole lot about her.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy and let me know what you think!

The first time Ian and Darcy made love, he was so very gentle with her. She felt like some sort of glass ornament or porcelain doll, wondered if there was a ‘fragile’ sticker plastered across her forehead that she was unaware of. _Darcy Lewis, intern extraordinaire: handle with care_. His kisses felt like the brushing of feathers against her skin. His touch was light, like the stroke of a painter taking care with his canvas. When he entered her, he apologized, and Darcy almost felt like she wasn’t there at all, like she could have slipped out from beneath him and he’d hardly even have noticed.

Darcy didn’t want gentle. She didn’t want to make love. Or at least, that wasn’t all she wanted to do. Sometimes she wanted to fuck. Sometimes she wanted things that no gentle words could ever give her. She wanted a storm against her skin, teeth at her throat, words that cut like blades, and looks that made her wither. There were days, many days, where she wanted to be at the mercy of the rhythm of the man above her, unable to meet his thrusts for all of his force and strength. It was an intoxicating thought.

Those who knew her best would have been surprised by this. Shocked, even. Quiet, simple Darcy who like her coffee and her music. Unassuming Darcy, with her bulky clothes and wide doe eyes. Witty to be sure, but even she would be the first to admit that her sharp tongue was more happenstance than planned cunning linguist.

The day she met _him_ he was on his knees before her, beaten and bloody and in chains. Normally she preferred to be the one on her knees but there was something about the way he looked up at her, breathless, eyes pleading, that sent a shiver through her. She gasped and everyone took it to mean she was afraid. Everyone but him. His eyes narrowed, the muscles in his cheek twitched, lips bound as they were by his muzzle. The others tried to comfort her. They told her that he couldn’t get free, that she was safe. All of Earth was safe now. Darcy trembled.

That night she went home and took a cold shower. She’d always thought the idea silly. How could a shower, cold or not, temper one’s libido? And she was right. It did nothing to quell the rising tide within her. She took her loofah, the one that was hard and dry and almost never used, and scrubbed her skin raw; trying to wash away the feelings that criminal had woken in her. Feelings she’d been trying to tamp down because she knew she’d be judged for them, had already been judged by countless boyfriends before. When that didn’t work she called Ian.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” she’d said. And Ian, poor lovesick Ian, had come right over.

She’d dragged him promptly to the bedroom, discarding items of clothing, his and hers, as they went. His kisses were sloppy, his fingers fumbled. They tumbled onto the bed. Darcy nearly growled as she pulled his pants down around his ankles, sliding his boxers with them. When she took him into her mouth Ian mewled. She worked him as hard she could, using her tongue and her teeth and her hands, but he just lay there. She wanted to scream. She wanted to make him scream. She wanted him to fist his hands in her hair, wanted him to take control, and wanted to give him that control, to give someone that control, but he didn’t take it. He didn’t understand and she couldn’t fault him for that.

He pulled her up before he’d even come, tugging lightly on her shoulders and whispering sweet, encouraging words to her. He chalked up her behavior to the day’s events and instead of making love to her he fell asleep while holding her close, his fingers softly caressing her pale skin. Darcy fell asleep with a wicked need he could not fill now, or ever, she realized. And in that moment a wall grew between them, tall and thick and angry, because Darcy needed so badly and Ian wanted so badly but what they each needed and wanted were very different things.

  
There were fights and there were tears and there were half-hearted attempts to each be what the other needed but in the end Darcy’s words turned to barbed wire and Ian’s love dried up like a field in winter. He walked around the office, empty and rattling like a husk, until one day he simply wasn’t there anymore. Jane looked at her as though she’d turned into some sort of ugly thing, as if her words had revealed some inner dirty part of her and she guessed that wasn’t entirely untrue. But still, it hurt, and she often found herself in the bathroom or kitchen fighting back tears.

It was Thor who’d brought Jane back around. It was almost a year to the day when he’d returned.

“Do not fault her for this, Jane,” she’d heard him say. She was standing around the corner from them and could easily picture the way he probably held Jane’s face in his large, strong hands.

“We do not choose whom we love,” he’d continued. “Nor how we love.”

“But…” Jane had interjected.

“Hush, my love.”

Darcy could hear the wet sound of a kiss and then heard Thor’s voice again.

“Her heart speaks a language yours does not, but it is no less borne of love than yours or mine.”

Darcy’s eyes widened.

“I have no idea what you mean,” Jane laughed.

“And you don’t need to,” he said. “Just accept that Darcy is good. She is our friend and she may need us in the coming weeks.”

_Why_ , thought Darcy.

“Why?” mirrored Jane.

Why turned out to be six foot and two inches of a fallen god that apparently had not been able to get one Darcy Lewis of Midgard out of his head for the entire duration of his incarceration. In fact, she would later learn that through all his days of torture, of which there were many, it was thoughts of her that kept him going. He had seen her, and in seeing her, wanted her. When not undergoing the more cruel punishments Asgard had to offer, he would grill Thor about his love’s best friend. He wanted to know everything about her. At first Thor resisted, sure that his brother was up to something. But then their mother had come to visit. She wiped the blood and sweat from Loki’s face and turned to Thor, beseeching him.

“He only ever wanted to be your equal, and in this, he can be,” she’d said.

“How do you mean?” Thor had asked.

“Darcy is…uniquely matched to Loki. In ways few women are, even fewer here on Asgard.”

“Mother!” Loki had whined, clearly not comfortable discussing the subject in front of her.

“Well, it’s true,” she said as she tossed down the bloody rag and stood.

Thor continued to look confused.

She patted him on the chest and then said, “I’ll let him explain. But you have my word; there is no ill intent here. He has seen a light that rarely shines and…”

“Out!” yelled Loki.

Frigga smiled. “Very well,” she said. She turned and left, her long flowing garments swishing behind her.

The conversation that followed was awkward and stilted and Thor was certain that if Loki had not been chained, likely would have come to blows too. But in the end he saw that his mother was right: Loki saw in Darcy a glint of salvation the day he’d been brought down and captured. He’d seen in her someone who could maybe understand him, even welcome him, and though Thor did not truly understand the nature of his desires he did understand how loneliness could drive a man mad and make him do all manner of things reprehensible. He’d seen it time and again in his long life.

And so, perhaps against his better judgment, he’d told Loki everything he’d could of Darcy, which wasn’t very much at all. Most of it was things Loki could not understand. What did the God of Mischief know of coffee or pop tarts or Facebook? And how could Thor describe in any way that did justice, her manner of dress or style when his attentions were so often fixed on Jane Foster and not on her unpaid assistant? Loki begged for more information, if hurling insults and swearing could count as begging.

So Thor did something he was not accustomed to doing. He stole and then he lied, which made his adoptive brother smile widely despite the holes in his lips that bled when the skin stretched and pulled. Loki winced and then held his cuffed hands out, anxious to peek at the toy Darcy held in such high regard.

“It’s called an iPod,” said Thor. “And you CANNOT keep it,” he emphasized.

Loki scowled at him.

He turned the small flat object around in his hands, pushing buttons until it lit up.

_Slide to unlock._

Loki did as the machine instructed and felt practically giddy when an array of icons popped up on the screen. He tapped each one in turn, wanting to devour every bit of information he could, delighted that such a small piece of technology could contain so much information. He spent a great deal of time looking through her photos, especially the ones of her, so much so that he forgot himself and traced the lines of her face with his bloodied fingertips, forgetting that Thor was standing there watching him.

Thor tilted his head, curious, and wondered if his brother could indeed feel love in the same way he felt love for Jane.

Loki also spent a great deal of time listening to her music, as Thor had said that was something special to her.

_No matter how many deaths that I die I will never forget_   
_No matter how many lives that I live, I will never regret_   
_There is a fire inside of this heart_   
_And a riot about to explode into flames_   
_Where is your God? Where is your God? Where is your God?_

Loki sighed when Thor told him it was time to return Darcy’s iPod.

“Can you not simply get her another?” he had complained.

Thor chuckled and he realized it was the first time he had laughed in his brother’s presence in a long time.

“Trust me, brother,” he’d said, “you do not want to come between Darcy and her iPod. She’s been frothing at the bit for days trying to find it.”

Loki smirked. “That’s something I’d like to see,” he said and Thor shook his head.

Seeing Darcy ended up happening sooner rather than later, much to everyone’s surprise. In his darker moments Loki had thought his mother’s encouragement had simply been another form of torture; dangle a carrot in front of Loki that he can never have because she will surely be wilted and turned to earth by the time he got out of his prison cell. Thor, in turn, had wondered if Loki was torturing himself, a perverse sort of punishment for his crimes by daydreaming about what he could never have. Neither of them was right.

Instead, a year to the day of Loki’s imprisonment, Frigga pulled Thor aside and asked him how deep his love for his brother ran. Unbeknownst to him, she had also spoken privately with Loki and asked him what he would give for a second chance at life. Loki, without hesitation, had said that he would give anything. A year in prison may seem fleeting but under the thumb of their most skilled _rehabilitators_ Loki’s will bent and broke easily, aided, of course, by thoughts of Darcy Lewis. Thor just as quickly declared his love for his adopted brother, saying he would do anything to return his brother to his side as he had been in days of yore.

Now they stood, the three of them in the large throne room of Asgard’s great palace, empty of all fanfare and pretense. No crowds to cheer or jeer them. No citizens to gawk and whisper; only the guards who flanked them on all sides. They could hear Odin’s ravens cawing in the distance and felt the warmth of sunshine filtering in through the great windows.

Frigga stood between the two men, two men who still seemed as children in her eyes. She held a great sword in her hands, so heavy she could barely lift it.

“This is the sword of truth,” she said, eyes cast down at the blade. “It cuts deep.” She looked to Loki. “It always hurts,” she said. Then she turned her gaze to Thor. “And sometimes it kills.”

Thor nodded, his countenance grave. He took the sword from his mother and pointed it at Loki. “Are you ready, brother?” he asked. The muscle next to his left eye twitched, a tell that Loki easily recognized. His brother was scared.

“Always,” replied Loki, his lips turned up into a half smile. He held his arms wide as though welcoming a hug but it was a false bravado. His eyes, which shone wet in the afternoon light, gave away his true feelings.

“I’m sorry,” whispered Thor. Then, with a great cry, he plunged the sword clean through Loki’s chest.

Frigga covered her mouth with her hand and choked back a sob as she watched her wayward son fall to his knees. Blood bubbled forth from his lips and as he fell forward he used what little strength he had left to bury the sword to the hilt within him. He cried out, agony coursing through him, hoping beyond hope to feel something, anything besides the pain. But he felt nothing. No magic. No release. No cleansing of whatever soul he had.

He coughed and more blood came up.

Thor fell to his knees and cradled his dying brother’s head.

“Mother!” he yelled imploringly as he looked up at her. “Do something!”

But she could do nothing. She backed up a step, shaking her head no as she went. “I cannot…” she whispered.

Thor felt Loki shudder and he looked back down at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.” Tears threatened to spill over as he spoke.

Loki shook his head as best he could, wincing as he did so.

“Be still,” instructed Thor.

“Tell her…” More blood bubbled forth and Loki coughed. “Tell her I would have made her queen.”

“You tell her,” said Thor. His voice broke in a half sob as he spoke. “You tell her,” he said as he rocked his brother’s dying form.

“You tell her,” he said again as Loki’s body stilled and then went limp in his arms.

The God of Lies, Prince of Mischief, Silver Tongue, had breathed his last breath. Or so it seemed.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been chipping away at this update for ages. I am so sorry for being so behind on all of my writing. I won't bore you with excuses. Let's just move on with the story. A few reminders/warnings: This is a slightly AU story. I've mixed up the timeline of events in the MCU to fit the needs of the story but all of the basic elements are still there. Darcy is somewhat OOC but hopefully not too much. This story is ultimately a story about kink but I am trying to handle it in a way that is realistic and works within the confines of this universe.
> 
> This chapter contains references to alcohol use and very slightly to drug use. There is also one scene that could be construed as sexual assault. I ask only that people bear in mind that everyone has different tolerance levels in situations and that not everyone reacts to the same situation in the same ways. Basically, read at your own risk. I did try to be delicate about it and certainly didn't glorify it at all. There is also a small femme slash scene in this chapter.
> 
> I did not have this beta'd because I wanted to get it to you guys asap. All mistakes are my own and I apologize for any there are. This chapter focuses more on Darcy's history explaining a bit about her proclivities. I promise to get back to Loki in the next chapter. I also promise that I have not given up on my other stories. Just been going through a rough time. Anyway, thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy. Feel free to let me know what you think.

When she was young Darcy used to play Cowboys and Indians with her friends. She remembered those hot summer days like they were yesterday; the eerie stillness that always seemed to settle over the woods behind her house when the heat choked you and insects stuck to your sweat slicked skin. The way the neighborhood turned oddly quiet with only the rattle and hum of air conditioners and fans, and the occasional whirring of a sprinkler to break the silence. She remembered her mother slathering her with lotion that smelled like coconut and the way her father always seemed to have a fresh beer in his hand, condensation dripping down and leaving little water marks on the sofa.

She and her friends would escape to the woods out back with its pine trees and mosquito infested creeks and streams and wild blueberry and raspberry bushes. They'd pick the berries and eat them till their fingers and mouths were stained red and purple from the juices and then they'd wash themselves clean in the clear running water, sometimes spying a fish or two in the larger pools.

When they played, Darcy was always the damsel in distress because she was the sole girl in the group. Only boys could be cowboys and Indians, or so they had told her. They'd make up some story about how she'd been kidnapped and taken away and needed to be rescued which resulted in her being tied to a tree and blindfolded, often for long periods of time. At first she protested, complained that she could be a cowboy too. She even had a cowboy hat at home leftover from Halloween, but it was to no avail.

And so it was that she found herself bound in the forest at the tender age of nine, unable to move or to see. She could hear her friends not that far off from where she was. Some of them were whooping and cawing and doing their best impression of the wild red-skinned men they'd all seen on TV and at the powwows, and she could hear the popping from the toy guns the "cowboys" used. The first time they played she had called out, pleading for help and to be released but she'd caused such a ruckus that the neighbors had complained and so next time she kept very quiet and didn't make a peep. The third time they played the boys forgot about her altogether and left her in the woods alone and tied up.

Darcy had always been a very patient child, never prone to tantrums or boredom. She could amuse herself for hours on end even without any toys or television, just by using her imagination alone. So when the first hour passed she didn't think much of it. She could still hear her friends, though their voices had become more distant; and even when their voices faded away to nothing she still didn't worry. She heard a lawnmower coming from somewhere far off behind her, and after that the sound of a plane flying overhead. As the day progressed the forest came alive around her. There was the high pitched squeaking of the chipmunks, and the frenzied call of the blue jays protecting their territory. She heard the buzzing of insects in her ear and felt her skin itch where she'd been bit, felt it more sharply than she could ever recall feeling it before. Her world narrowed down to how the bark felt biting into her skin and the pinch of the rope whenever she shifted from foot to foot and the delicious relief she felt whenever a stray breeze flitted briefly across her damp skin.

After a while, she wasn't sure exactly how long, she did call out a few times because it seemed like the right thing to do, but she did so half-heartedly and without any real care. Inexplicable as it was, she felt safe, safer than she felt with her nightlight on, safer than when her father checked under the bed for monsters, safer even than how it felt to be sandwiched between her parents while on the couch watching television.

Darcy's parents; loving and kind as any parents should be, but every kindness has its limits. By the time they found her that day Darcy was feeling quite content. Her parents, however, were anything but. She heard them whacking their way through the brush. Heard her father swearing which was enough to make Darcy's heart race and her pulse speed up. A dog began barking frantically back in the neighborhood and Darcy wondered if it could hear the commotion in the woods.

"Darcy!" she heard them cry out, their voices a strange mixture of worry and anger.

At first Darcy kept silent. She was worried about what would happen when they found her. Would her father strike her? Was he that mad? But then she heard her mother call out again, and this time Darcy's name quivered on her lips and her voice broke in the way Darcy knew meant she was crying. Darcy had only seen her mother cry once before. It was after Darcy had stolen a candy bar from the local gas mart. Darcy wasn't sure why she had done it. It was just there and she was hungry and without thinking she had grabbed it and walked out, or rather, tried to walk out. She was stopped by the clerk and her mother was called down to fetch her. Darcy had never seen her mother cry before that day and she never wanted to see it again. So when she heard her mother's voice trembling that day in the woods, Darcy called out in return.  
They found her, of course; pulled the blindfold down and freed her from the ropes that bit into her skin. Her father had yelled at her. Her mother had cried and held her. Darcy saw that one of their neighbors were with them and felt a sudden shame. When asked what had happened she tried to explain it was just a game but this did not appease her parents the way she thought it would. Later, after making sure she was okay, they grounded her and forbid her to play with the boys again. 

That night Darcy cried. She lay in her bed and tossed and turned. She didn't understand why something that had felt so good upset her parents so. She tried to explain to them that she was fine, that she'd liked it, but that seemed to make things worse. Her mother had looked at her with such disappointment. Her father shook his head and told her to go to her room. 

Darcy never forgot that day in the woods. Nor did she ever bring it up again. But in the darkness of her room at night, or on the rare afternoons when no one was home, she tried to replicate what she had felt that day. She took socks and belts, and even her mother's long strand of pearls, and bound her feet and legs with them. She'd take her father's kerchiefs and wrap them around her head so that she could not see and she'd sit there like that for hours if she could, but it was never quite the same. Her hands always hung loose, a reminder that her bonds were of her own making. As she grew older she realized that was the key element missing. It wasn't just the act of being bound. It was the boys. She'd trusted them. Given herself to them in a way she couldn't possibly understand at that age. That was what she craved.

The first time she dared to test this theory was during her freshman year of college. She'd had one too many drinks, was warm with them despite the cold weather, and had jokingly asked her date to tie her up with her scarf. He'd complied, all too willingly, mistaking her request as permission for so much more, not understanding that she hadn't wanted sex. She just wanted to feel safe again, like she had that day in the woods.

It all went quite terribly. He'd groped her, kissed her with wet sloppy lips; dry humped her like some sort of dog in heat. Darcy ended up kicking him in the groin to get him to stop. To his credit, he apologized. He sheepishly rearranged his clothes and then untied her. He tried to help her back into her clothes but she just yelled at him to get out. They never spoke again.

After that Darcy started carrying a Taser. 

It was hard, in the dorms, to indulge in her fantasies, fantasies that now had become intrinsically linked to her sex drive. As she had blossomed into womanhood, so too, had her unique desires blossomed. At home, her most fulfilling moments came when she managed to bind her feet and one hand to her bed frame. She had become brave with age and even engaged in this act when her parents were home. Having to keep quiet while her body sang was a deliciously torturous challenge.

At school she turned to the internet, though truth be told, most of what she found there repulsed her. Not the acts performed but rather the very public window into what seemed so private to her. She couldn't bear to look at other people engaging in such intimacy without feeling like she was somehow violating them. 

Then there was the girl. Just once, and she knew it was a cliché, had heard the derogatory term LUG tossed around among her friends. And so she knew to keep her mouth shut about that night; another party, another drink too many, liquid courage the only thing that seemed to fuel her into action in those early days. 

Frankie was one of those girls you weren't supposed to talk to; halfway between hipster and goth and most assuredly a criminal or crazy person, probably both. But Darcy was never one to judge, not really. So when Frankie joined her on the rooftop Darcy didn't think too much of it, or rather, didn't think too much of what others would think.

"You'll hurt yourself," said Frankie as she watched Darcy pass the flame of a lighter beneath her palm.

"Maybe that's the point," Darcy replied. Her eyes never left the flame. She was buzzed and a little high and staring into the flickering light felt like staring into a tiny little galaxy. Darcy was mesmerized.

"I didn't take you to be one of those." Frankie took a long swig from her beer.

"One of what?" asked Darcy as she let the flame snuff out and switched her attention to the girl sitting next to her. Frankie had long dark hair, smooth as silk, and eyes done up like an Egyptian Goddess.

Frankie eyed Darcy for a moment, each girl staring into the other's eyes. Then she reached into her back pocket and pulled out a small switchblade. She flicked it open and then mockingly ran it across her wrist a few times. "You know," she said, _slash, slash, slash_ , "One of _those_."

"OH," Said Darcy, her eyes opening wide. She looked down at the lighter she held and then quickly dropped it and kicked it away. "I'm not. I just…"Darcy fumbled for the right words and when she couldn't find them she kicked a small stone, looked up at the sky, and said, "So. How 'bout them Red Sox."

Frankie laughed. "I don't care, you know."

Darcy looked at her. "Do you?" she asked. She looked at the knife and then back at Frankie.

Frankie smiled, cat like, and it made Darcy suddenly feel like a very small mouse. The sleight woman leaned in and whispered. "I like to be the one to hurt people."

The words should have frightened Darcy. Any sane person would have picked up their drink and walked away but there was a heat in Frankie's eyes that told Darcy she'd just hit the jackpot. She'd found someone like her.

Darcy swallowed the large lump that had settled in her throat and then looked around the rooftop. There were other students gathered here and there, some making out, some laughing, one guy was playing guitar. Then, in true Darcy fashion, she raised her hand and declared "Check please!" to no one in particular which earned her a few strange looks. But Darcy didn't care. Right now the only thing she cared about was the sudden pounding beat of blood that had gathered south of the border.

She didn't care that she had never even kissed a girl before. She didn't care that they sat in the back of Frankie's car steaming up the windows. She didn't even care when Frankie refused to go down on her. All she cared about was the feel of Frankie's knife at her throat, the way Frankie pulled and tugged at Darcy's hair without mercy, and how Frankie slipped her fingers into Darcy's mouth and told her to _suck_.

Then, when they parted ways, Frankie had held Darcy's face between her hands and said "NO TOUCHING." And Darcy knew exactly what she meant. Darcy was certain she'd come undone right then and there if Frankie told her to.

The next day Frankie slipped Darcy a note with her phone number on it.

 _You're not alone_ , it said.

What followed was an odd friendship of sorts. They were never intimate again, never sat in the cafeteria together, never hung out on a Friday night. But every now and then they'd get together and Frankie would show Darcy the ropes, literally. She gave Darcy books to read, told her about the "scene", even tried to set Darcy up on a date, but the guy showed up in head to toe leather and was nearly old enough to be Darcy's father. Darcy stifled a laugh and then, later, made the mistake of calling him _Daddy_ , which only seemed to fuel his desire for her. Halfway through dinner she begged off, feigning illness, and caught a bus back to the dorms.

It was that night she found the ad for the internship with Jane Foster.

In the months that followed Frankie dropped out of school in favor of a cross country road trip with a new boyfriend. They kept in touch but in time it dwindled. Darcy was busy with school and Frankie became a memory tucked away in a corner of her mind, traipsed out only on certain nights when she was alone in the dark and feeling her urges, urges that often didn't line up with those of the boys at her school. She'd tried, of course, but it wasn't easy. About half the men in her orbit had eyes only for the girls, even though Darcy covered herself up as best she could with sweaters and scarves. The other half seemed intimidated by her, especially the guys in the lab where she worked with Jane. That was, until Ian.

Ian who fumbled over his words the day they were introduced. Ian, who laughed at her jokes and remembered to bring her coffee each morning. Ian, whose face turned red when he asked her if she'd like to go see a movie. She agreed, and they saw some stupid comedy and Darcy had laughed the whole time, not because the movie was funny but because they'd gotten into a popcorn fight right there in the theater. She laughed when the usher came and asked them to leave. She grabbed Ian's hand and giggled the whole way out. In the diner she laughed because she dared Ian to dip his fries in the various condiments that lined their table and he did. She especially loved the face he made when he tried the vinegar. And then, later, when they were saying goodnight, she laughed because Ian had asked permission to kiss her. The kiss was gentle and sweet and in that moment it was exactly what she wanted.

But there were other times when she wanted other things.

Like on their six month anniversary. Darcy had managed to keep her more unusual needs tamped down and hidden from Ian but Ian in a fancy suit, some spicy food, and a bottle of red wine changed that. Her girly parts were firing on all cylinders that night and she thought it seemed as good a time as any. She was in his lap on the couch, their mouths glued to each other and hands roaming. Darcy undid his tie and slowly pulled it from around his neck. She bit his lip playfully and then whispered, "Tie me up."

"W-what?" he had asked as his mouth sought hers again.

"I want you to tie me up." Darcy rolled her hips against his in an effort to entice him. "Then," she continued, "I want you to take your belt…"

Before she could finish Ian started laughing. Not a nervous laugh. Not a small, quiet laugh. A full on out loud belly laugh that made his whole body shake.

"Oh, God," he said. "Did Ralph put you up to this?" Ralph was Ian's best friend and known for his childish sexual innuendos and penchant for strippers.

"N-no," said Darcy, bewildered. 

"Oh," he replied. "Honey, no." He rubbed his hands up and down her arms, trying to comfort her. "You don't have to do that. Not with me. I would never do anything to degrade you. Ever."

It was true. Ian almost never put the moves on her and when he did he always asked her if it was okay. Each step of the way Darcy had to consent. _May I undo this button? May I touch you here? Is this alright?_ At first she thought it was cute, endearing even, but after a while she grew impatient and she became the initiator. Often, it was her hand that traveled down his pants, her tongue that teased his, her words begging him for more. And he gave her more. In bits and pieces, slowly, like an excruciatingly difficult puzzle. A piece of clothing here, a little more pressure there, in just the right spot, until finally, Darcy held him in her hand, held him as his body shuddered and he whispered her name and told her that he loved her. 

Darcy felt as though a huge lead ball was suddenly dropped in her stomach. He didn't understand. He didn't understand what she needed. But she loved him, and he loved her, so she took him to bed that night. He was gentle, so gentle, like she was spun from glass, and indeed, a piece of her shattered that night. But Darcy was Darcy and so when the sun came up she smiled and she kissed him and she felt happy in his arms. Maybe he just needed time, she thought. But it turned out time was something they didn't have.

New York happened the following week. The Chitauri attack. Loki. Erik. The three of them, Jane and Darcy and Ian, were already living there, bank accounts cushioned courtesy of Tony Stark. It was there, in Stark's building, that Darcy had seen him, Thor's brother, bound and beaten and on his knees; and like that time with Frankie, she just knew, knew in the way that his eyes bored into hers, could see when they narrowed, that same feral hunger she'd seen on Frankie that night on the rooftop. 

She went home and scrubbed herself raw in the shower, trying to wash away the sudden burning need that monster had woken in her. When that didn't work she called Ian. She clawed at him, tore his clothes, her hunger turning her more animal than human, but in the end Ian won out, his chivalry outweighing any primal urges either of them had. And it was in that moment, as he held her and told her that he loved her, that she realized he could never give her what she needed, not really.

When she dreamt that night she dreamt of gold armor and bloodied skin and a snake with two heads, each of them trying to consume the other. She woke crying but this time when Ian tried to comfort her she pushed him away. They had their first real fight that morning but Ian chalked it up to the stress of the day before because that's the kind of guy Ian was. In the weeks and months that followed Darcy tried. And Ian tried. But ultimately there were too many tears, too many words spoken in anger. The pain was always in the air around them, connecting them so that every glance, every touch, hurt. The chasm between them had spread too wide, had become irreversible. So Ian left. And Darcy cried some more.

Then Thor came back. Still muscly. Still blonde. Still able to make Jane squeal and sweep her off her feet. It made Darcy happy to see her friend happy.

"How's space?" she'd asked him.

"Space is fine," he'd replied, but something in the way he looked at her unnerved her.

"What?" she asked. She wiped at her nose and then her mouth. "Do I have something on my face?"

Thor smiled. "No. I was just wondering…" Just then Jane came up.

"Wondering what?" Jane asked.

Thor eyed Darcy for a moment longer and then turned to Jane. "Nothing, my love." He looped her arm around his. "Shall we?" Jane had promised him a tour of their new facilities. 

Jane beamed. "Of course!"

"Darcy," Thor nodded.

"Thor," Darcy nodded, face serious, and then giggled, earning a smirk from the God of Thunder.

Darcy knew that Jane told Thor about Ian. She knew, too, that Jane had told him it was Darcy's fault though Jane didn't understand why. Darcy had never told Jane about their sex life, or, more specifically, about her sex life. 

So it was with shock that Darcy eavesdropped on Jane and Thor's conversation about her. 

_“Her heart speaks a language yours does not, but it is no less borne of love than yours or mine.”_

Did he know? How could he? She never dared to ask him, not directly anyway. Instead, much to Jane's embarrassment, she asked them about their sex life. 

"So," she said one day over lunch, "How exactly do you two get your freak on?" 

Jane nearly spit out her food and Thor looked at her, confused. 

"You know," said Darcy as she shoveled a forkful of lo mein into her mouth. "The beast with two backs." She said as she chewed. "Knocking boots. Bumping uglies." She put down the fork and took a sip of her soda. "Do you even have," she looked at Thor's lap and then back up. "like, stuff. The right stuff." She looked at Jane. "Does he have the right stuff?" Jane's face turned bright red.

"I assure you, Lady Darcy, that the men of Asgard do indeed have 'the right stuff'." Thor grinned, teeth gleaming, and then winked at Darcy.

"Oh, don't encourage her!" Jane whined.

"What?" Darcy leaned back in her chair. "Enquiring minds want to know."

"I'm not doing this," said Jane as she stood. "Come on. We have work to do." 

Thor hesitated. He looked at Darcy's unfinished food. 

"Go ahead," said Darcy. "You probably need it more than I do."

Thor nodded in thanks and then turned to Jane. "I'll be just a moment," he said, giving her his best puppy dog eyes.

Once they were alone Thor's gaze turned serious.

"Speak your mind, Darcy," he said.

"I always do," She pushed her plate of food towards him, eyes trained on the table top.

"And yet," said Thor.

Darcy said nothing, instead pretending that her napkin was suddenly very interesting.

"I know a ruse when I see one. I don't need my brother's talents for that."

Darcy's breath caught. Just the mention of him thrilled her. 

"Is he dead?" she asked, fingers pulling her napkin to tiny shreds, trying to feign indifference.

"No," said Thor.

Relief, then shame, washed through Darcy.

"Why not?' she asked.

Thor seemed to think for a moment. "I believe the saying is quid pro quo?"

"No," said Darcy. "That means a…"

"Question for a question." He finished.

Darcy looked at him.

"I will answer your question, if you answer mine." Thor leaned in, arms resting on the table, and if she didn't know better she would have been intimidated.

"What do you want to know?" she asked. 

"Why the sudden interest in Asgardian bedroom games?" he asked.

Darcy shrugged. "Alien sex. Why wouldn't I be interested?"

Thor's features softened. "You're a terrible liar, friend." Then, his voice low, he said "You are not alone in your desires, Darcy."

Had it been any other man she would have thought she was being hit on but this was Thor, a man of honor, and she knew in her heart that he loved Jane dearly.

Thor continued. "As for why my brother still breathes, it is simple. Our mother's hand stayed his execution." Thor's expression turned grave. "Were it not for her, Loki would be no more." Thor sighed. "He has been imprisoned since returning to Asgard."

"Why did he do it?" asked Darcy. She leaned in, her arms also resting on the table.

Thor eyed her, then his eyebrow quirked. "Are you willing to answer another of my questions?"

Darcy frowned. 

"How often have your thoughts turned to him in the past year?"

Darcy's frown deepened. She was quiet for a moment, her thoughts racing as she tried to come up with an answer that wasn't a lie but wasn't exactly the truth either. Finally, she settled on "A lot." Darcy stood to leave but Thor grasped her wrist lightly, halting her exit.

"My brother has sought peace for many years now," he said. "First, in battle, and later, in imagining his place on the throne. He thought power over the people of Midgard would sate him, would soothe the instincts he's warred with since becoming a man. He was wrong."

Thor released Darcy's wrist. "The only rule he needs lies in the provenance of the heart, not in the governing of a kingdom."

In that moment Darcy knew. She was his. It didn't matter that he was locked away on an alien planet. It didn't matter that they'd never spoken one word to each other. It didn't even matter that he trailed death behind him like a twisted version of Hansel's breadcrumbs leading him home. She knew that if he were to walk through that door that very second she would do anything he asked of her.

And in that moment, Thor knew it too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also wanted to let you guys know about something. It's not related to this fandom but it is fandom related and something very important to me. As some of you know, one of my fandoms is the Twilight fandom. I know, I know, Twilight sucks, blah blah blah. But I like it. Some of my best friends came out of that fandom. Anyway, Stephenie Meyer, the author of Twilight, is running a contest right now called Twilight Storytellers in which people were invited to submit screenplay proposals for short films based off her characters. I submitted three proposals and one of mine got chosen for the current phase which is a "top 40" proposals phase. So why am I telling you this? Because in order to move on to the next phase (in which the list is whittled down to 20 entries) I need votes. If you are so inclined, please go vote for my submission:
> 
> https://tongal.com/project/Twilight
> 
> You do have to create an account to vote but I promise they don't spam you. My entry is titled "Run". In it Victoria faces off with Aro. It would really mean a lot to me to be able to make it to the next round. The deadline for voting is December 31st. Thank you and apologies if anyone feels like this is spam or inappropriate.


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